It’s never about birds in poetry;

it is about our inadequate,

marrow-filled bones that

weigh us down

reminding us of the immediacy

of the dust.

It’s never about stars in poetry;

it is about trying on our different

masks, searching for one that

hides a cavernous soul

Its never about flowery metaphors

it is about searching for the truth

through ripping and tearing;

shredding your soul

in the process

This is my contribution to Casting Bricks. Jilly’s poem is in bold, and mine follows to completion